


eskalith

by uzumagay



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Victor, M/M, Pre-Canon, Suicide Attempt, basically everything's the same but victor's bipolar, sort of, this is more of a victor story than a victor/yuuri??? but its there toward the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 12:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11509233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uzumagay/pseuds/uzumagay
Summary: When Victor was fifteen, Yakov caught him standing on the barrier of the rink, skates still on his feet.





	eskalith

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so:
> 
> There are a few things about this fic. It's mostly based on personal experience with the disorder, and I think it's important to explain some things because I didn't much within the story.
> 
> Victor has Bipolar 1, the more severe type of Bipolar Disorder. It is characterized by periods of mania (elevated moods leading to impulsive actions, lack of sleep and hyperactivity, inflated self image, and sometimes hypersexuality) and depression. The depression is pretty standard, but can sometimes be more intense in cased of Bipolar Disorder.
> 
> Victor takes Lithium (which is also called Eskalith, hence the name) which is the more common Bipolar medication. His experiences on Lithium and Prozac are based off my own experiences. 
> 
> The blood tests that are mentioned are common - and from my own experiences, Lithium is not therapeutic until it has a level of 0.07 in your blood. Lithium can also cause thyroid issues, which is why his thyroid is tested as well.
> 
> This story is kind of choppy and gives snippets throughout his life and treatment. He is not dealing with everything healthily (ie. refusing therapy, missing his meds, etc) but I wanted to make it realistic.

When Victor was fifteen, Yakov caught him standing on the barrier of the rink, skates still on his feet. Victor had no idea what time it was (two, three in the morning? who knows), but he was on the edge of something amazing, his legs shaking as he  _ found his center _ like Lilia taught him--

 

Yakov was quiet when he spoke. It was odd. Victor could see his face, voice gentle as he came over slowly. 

 

“Vitya, take my hand,” he had said, reaching out his big hand to Victor. He didn’t understand, how could he not see that this was  _ amazing,  _ if he could just land well when he jumped down--

 

He said as much to Yakov. It wouldn’t be good for competition, but it will be so fun, so  _ cool,  _ but Yakov insisted. His gentle voice was tighter, his hand more insistent. Victor just wanted to show him he could do this.

 

“I can do it,” he assured, but his legs were aching. Double-balancing was hard. He took a deep breath and ignored Yakov’s words. Victor has always been good at drowning him out. 

 

Victor prepares to jump, thighs tensing as he pushes off, but he knows it’s bad right away. He waited too long. His legs are too tired, and the skates slide backwards as he jumps. There’s a little height, but no outward push. His face bashes into the barrier. 

 

There’s a shout, and Victor doesn’t know if it’s him or Yakov. All he can feel is pain and warm blood pouring from his nose. He whines, and Yakov comes fast. His hands are forcing Victor’s face up, and he doesn’t resist. 

 

“Stupid boy,” he hisses, and Victor feels his stomach drop at the words. “Stupid, stupid boy,” Yakov sighs, and Victor lets his head hang. There’s blood dripping on the floor, but he doesn’t say anything. “Do not move. I will fix it.”

 

Victor doesn’t respond as Yakov hurries away. He’s stupid. Victor’s eyes fill up with tears, and when Yakov comes back, he blames it on the pain.

 

He had just wanted to show Yakov something he’d never seen before.

 

\--

 

The next year is hectic. 

 

Victor makes his Senior Debut at sixteen. It comes of hours, countless hours, of time in the rink. Middle-of-the-night calls to Yakov to beg for his rink keys back. Victor, at sixteen, was not allowed to be in the rink by himself, especially at night. It ruins his middle-of-the-night ideas that are so good, he just needs to try them, just once--

 

But Yakov says no. It’s irritating. He’s almost an adult, and it’s not like Yakov is the one who knows his body’s limits - Victor is on top of the world. He knows best.

 

Despite that, he wins gold in Yakov’s way of running things. The missing hours he used to have don’t matter when he’s given that gold medal, heavy on his neck with pain and pride. He doesn’t know which. Maybe both.

 

He loves his medal. He loves the crowd. He loves Christophe Giacometti, two years younger and no less talented. He loves that he is a source of inspiration, that he is a goal. 

 

Victor is happy. He is. His boy feels like there are weights holding him down, but it’s from training. His tears that night are from amazement, from pride, from happiness. The grogginess the next morning, and the next, and the next, are all from stress.

 

\--

 

Depending on who you ask, Victor tried to kill himself once.

 

According to Yakov and the hospital, it was a suicide attempt. One night of alcohol overindulgence at seventeen mixed with the over-the-counter antihistamines he took sometimes when he couldn’t fall asleep had left Victor in a hospital, stomach pumped with an immediate seventy-two hour suicide watch. 

 

In Victor’s defense, he had never meant to die. He wasn’t trying to die when he took a few more of the little pills than he normally did. He just wanted to sleep, wanted to get rid of the nauseous drunk feeling. It was just too much. He knew better now. 

 

But, apparently, the question  _ have you ever had suicidal thoughts? _ has a right and wrong answer. Right answer would have been  _ no, of course not, this was an accident _ , not  _ sometimes.  _ The word had spilled from his mouth before he could even think, before he could register the fact that Yakov was listening. Victor felt guilty seeing the man’s face tighten, and he tried to backtrack. 

 

The doctor had already stood, though, speaking quietly to Yakov, who kept glancing over at him. They locked eyes for a moment, and Yakov nodded. Victor’s stomach dropped.

 

Victor has never wanted to die more than when he was on suicide watch.

 

\--

 

Victor leaves suicide watch with a month’s worth of medication and a referral to a psychiatrist. 

 

Lithium carbonate, 150mg, twice a day. They’re white capsules, sticky and hard to get down when he swallows them. (“For the Bipolar Disorder,” the doctor had said to him and Yakov, and neither of them knew what that meant. They’re given a pamphlet with a group of adults on the front titled  _ Living with Bipolar Disorder. _ )

 

Prozac, 10mg once a day. These ones are a bright green, which makes Victor nervous. Sticky capsules. 

 

(“What are these for?” Victor asks, looking at the prescription. Yakov peers at the little paper.

 

“For the depression,” the doctor answers, signing off on the paper. He looks up at Yakov, speaking to him directly. “You have to watch him, because antidepressants with Bipolar Disorder can sometimes lead to something called Serotonin Syndrome--” 

 

Victor stops listening. All he can think is  _ but I’m not depressed. _ He isn’t. He looks at the little blue papers and hates himself.)

 

\--

 

Victor sees a psychiatrist. He hates every moment of it, but Yakov listens intently to what the little woman has to say. She explains the side effects, unlike the suicide watch doctor (common side effects of Lithium are thirst, stomach pain, and shaking. Victor can’t help but feel a little relieved, knowing it’s the medicine and that it should go away. The doctor tells Yakov to make sure he’s eating, because the Prozac can make him stop. Yakov agrees.)

 

She orders blood tests. Lithium level, lipids, thyroid levels. A few more Victor didn’t care to remember. They take the blood from his elbow and screw on a purple top to two different little containers. 

 

He’s used to blood tests for the ISU. But leaving the lab, he feels gross. He’s seventeen years old, taking constant medication and getting blood tests. Victor feels like he’s fifty. He feels sick.

 

He assumes it’s the medication. It’s better that way.

 

\--

 

The ISU approves his medication. He skates, but not well. He’s still getting used to the shakiness, the twitching his Lithium does to him. He places bronze. 

 

The boy who places silver talks to him afterward. He doesn’t know the boy’s name, but he’s pretty and talented and normal and everything Victor wants to be, so they spend the night in his hotel room. Victor misses his nighttime medication, but he figures one night won’t kill him. He just needs a night of being normal. Of being seventeen and not fifty, with kisses pressed into his mouth instead of pills.

 

\--

 

It takes years of medication adjustments. Off Prozac (because that makes him feel too bad) and onto Zoloft, but off that (because that makes him feel too good). He stays on Lithium, the milligrams going up from 300mg a day to 600mg a day to 900mg a day. Blood tests span from once a month to once every three months to once every six. Lithium levels get higher, edging him to the hail-mary  _ 0.07 _ therapeutic. 

 

Shakiness abates, but twitches come. It’s few and far between, but no less frustrating. 

 

If anyone asked Victor at seventeen what he thought about his medication, he would tell them he hated it. The pills were gross, made him feel weird, messed with his creativity, took his energy. He would name every issue he’s ever had on the medication.

 

But, at twenty-four, he can say he’s okay on the medicine. He still has bouts of depression so deep that almost make him call Yakov, and he still has manic episodes and does impulsive things. They’re not as bad as they used to be. 

 

Before, his every emotion was so intense he felt like he was going to implode from just feeling. It’s a medium now - he can feel, but there’s not too much. He doesn’t cry as much as he used to. He doesn’t spend nights begging for the key to the rink from Yakov.

 

However, completely separate from that, there is an ache. He’s okay, he doesn’t binge on alcohol and pills like he did at seventeen, but he’s sad. 

 

Victor has spent much of his life alone. He has Yakov, yes, and his rinkmates - but Victor has not had parents since he began skating. Yakov tried, and he loves the man for it, but he is not a father. 

 

(“You do not need anyone else, Vitya,” Yakov had said to him once, sitting at the bench with him when he was nineteen. The day had been full of flubbed jumps and poor step sequences because of a French skater who hadn’t called back. “You are Victor Nikiforov. You do not need anyone other than yourself.”

 

He felt his throat get tight. “Da,” he said softly, and Yakov nodded. He stood and slid back onto the ice. French skater or no, Victor guesses Yakov was right. He can be alone. He always has been.

 

“Let’s go through it once more, Victor.”)

 

Before anything, Yakov is a coach. Even though all of the medication, the failed attempts and recommendations to go into therapy, Yakov has always remained a coach rather than a father. 

 

He feels like his head is floating away sometimes, with nothing but gold medals keeping him on the ground.

 

\--

 

He skates. It’s something that used to be so helpful, something that pulled him through the depression and calmed him in his mania. It still is helpful, but he doesn’t know how much longer he can do this.

 

He’s twenty-seven now. Eleven years worth of Senior Division skating. Nine years of medication. Makkachin is getting old. He is getting old. 

 

Victor can feel it in his chest, the weight that never has left. This year’s Grand Prix has been the hardest he’s had in a while. It’s getting harder and harder to skate with the feeling all are expecting of him. 

 

And everyone is expecting things from him. Yuri came for the Junior Grand Prix, and despite the fact that he is an angry little boy, Victor knows Yuri looks up to him. He doesn’t want to let anyone down. 

 

So, when the sweet looking Japanese boy who placed last with an inspiration of his own program (Victor could tell - Katsuki Yuuri had taken a leaf from Victor’s book when it came to his presentation, and Victor had appreciated it. It was sweet.) walked away without a photo, Victor didn’t know how he felt.

 

He lived for his fans. He skated for his fans. He didn’t understand why this fan had not wanted a photo.

 

\--

 

Victor has learned to keep his medication on him for times like this. He glances at his phone, seeing the time at nine - he excuses himself, sips a water and downs the pill, but he almost spills the water when he sees Katsuki Yuuri, once again.

 

He’s getting undressed. It makes Victor smile, pressing his phone against his mouth as he watched this boy - Japan’s Ace, a reserved boy with a lot of skill - start dancing. His tie is off (and honestly, thank god for that - it’s an ugly color) and tied on his head as he challenges Yuri for a dance off.

 

Victor laughs out loud, watching off to the side. Yuri agrees when Japanese Yuuri taunts him, and Victor loves every second of it.

 

The night is a blur of feeling and warmth. Of Yuuri’s hands on him, dancing, smiling. Yuuri’s skin and a pole with Christophe. It’s the best night he’s had in so long. 

 

Victor is in love with this. He’s in love with the feeling of being alive, his heart beating fast and his hands shaking not from medicine, but from excitement and happiness. 

 

And when Yuuri holds onto him, drunk, and begs  _ be my coach, Victor! _ he’s pretty sure he’s in love with Yuuri, too. He whispers to Yuuri is room number, writes his phone number down on a paper and shoves it in the boy’s suit pocket as his coach pulls him away. 

 

For days, for weeks, Victor hangs on every moment his phone makes a sound. But there is none. 

 

(“You do not need anyone other than yourself,” Yakov had said, and Victor knows he’s right now. He doesn’t need anyone else. He doesn’t want anyone else. He won’t wait for phone calls that never come anymore.)

 

Even though he doesn’t want to, he slips under. He stays in bed for days. Yakov checks on him. Forces him to the doctor. Meds adjusted, and Victor hates everything.

 

\--

 

Victor gets a text from Christophe with a link to a video of Katsuki Yuuri skating his program.

**Author's Note:**

> if people like this i might continue it?? maybe?? hmu @ ianapologist.tumblr.com


End file.
